


all’s fair in love and war

by riptheh



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Frenemies, Spoilers, Spyfall Spoilers, barely a romance, messed up relationship, ugh THEM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22126006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riptheh/pseuds/riptheh
Summary: The Doctor, lying in the forest, decides to give up. So of course, the Master just has to go and get her.Spoilers for spyfall pt 1!
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & The Master (Dhawan), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 280





	all’s fair in love and war

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I am yeeting another fanfic yes I am 30000 ft above ground in airplane yes what of it
> 
> here’s praying airplane WiFi actually posts this

She staggers when she lands, and doesn’t fall. The force of the travel, shock though it is, isn’t enough to send her to her knees.

What sends her to the ground a moment later is pure realization, clear as bleach and vitriolic on her tongue. It burns a hole right through her stomach—she can almost feel the bottom dropping out.

Realization. Shock. She can’t breathe for the two of them. It’s cold, like falling into a freezing lake. She starts shaking the moment she hits the surface of it, and can’t stop. Violent, uncontrollable trembling. At the back of her mouth, she tastes vomit.

She’s going to be sick, and with that thought comes disgust, because whilst her friends are hurtling to a fiery death, the Doctor is puking her guts out on a strange, ghostly forest floor.

She can’t stop it, even so, and the next five minutes find her dry-heaving, the remains of what little she’d eaten that day spattered across the ground. Stupid, disgusting biology. As useless as a human’s.

Humans. Friends. Ryan, Yaz and Graham, the dawn of slow realization upon their faces, slower than hers and that much worse, the slotting of jigsaw pieces into place. The Master, cheerily doing the slotting. And the Doctor in reverse, falling to pieces, like a completed jigsaw swiped off the table and onto the floor.

Dimly, she knows what a panic attack looks like. More immediately, she can’t stop it. Every time she forces her thoughts to slow, they stretch like putty, loose and lingering, all of the same thing.

Her fam, dying. The Master, returned. Her own self, torn up by the delicate, young roots she’d carefully watered. And it had only taken him a minute.

He always catches up. The thought swims across her mind, then fills it. He always catches up because he can never let her go, and worse is that neither can she, no matter how she tries. Five minutes and he’s torn her life apart, but at the same time he’s wormed his way back into it, and that is nearly unbearable because it’s nice. It’s familiar, it’s aching, the unhealed wound of a friendship never quite ended. Even now, she misses him, and it’s not fair, because she didn’t before. She’d had him buried when she’d buried Missy, and that was meant to be the last of it. Those two boys from Gallifrey, joined at the hip no longer.

But she should have known, because to brush up against him is to tie herself once more to his soul. And every time, it hurts to wrench apart again.

“I can’t do it,” she gasps, and she’s not sure what she’s referring to. The cockpit bomb? Pulling her friends from death? Defeating the Master once more?

“I can’t do it,” she says again, but it’s a whimper this time, and her head is lying against the damp forest floor, and since when had she been curled on her side? Defeat is dragging at her like sleep, turning her brain to mush, curling her into a ball, inescapable.

She’s giving up, she realizes. She doesn’t want to be brave, to stand up and be the hero. She doesn’t want to repot the fragile roots she’s tried to grow. She’s always been so much better at moving on.

Well, for nearly everybody except—

The Doctor curls in tighter on herself, a huff that’s closer to a sob leaving her throat. The sideways forest is blurring, and she’s not sure why, but a moment later something wet slides down her cheek. She doesn’t bother wiping it away. There’s no point.

It’s a rebellion, in a way, non-action. She’s always gotten back on her feet. The Master surely expects it. He’s probably waiting for her now with some dastardly plan, grinning in anticipation of her arrival. She pictures the fall of his face when he realizes she isn’t going to arrive, and lets out a laugh.

It turns into a sob halfway through, and that’s when she gives up. Gives herself over to the tears and exhaustion. What else is there to do? She’s already decided non-action. Might as well take the reprieve.

Besides—nobody will see her here.

She’s a quiet cryer in this body. She sniffles, lets tears trickle sideways down her face, and slowly, surrenders to exhaustion. For how long, she’s not sure. Because she’ll get up, sometime. It’s an instinct of hers. Soon enough, it’ll kick in, and she’ll be back on her feet, back to face the world she no longer wants to see.

She doesn’t do any of that. Instead, before she can even finish crying, and entirely by accident, she falls asleep.

—————

The Master waits. And waits. And soon enough, he gets impatient.

“She should be here by now,” he growls to nobody but himself, and starts to pace, footsteps rebounding. “Where is she?”

She always comes after him. It’s part of the game, and he’s been waiting for it, practically bouncing on the soles of his shoes from excitement. Because the look on her face back on the plane— _ that _ had been delicious. But that was just the appetizer. Nothing more than a trick to get the bloody humans out of the way, the replacements she insists she loves. He can’t even remember their names. 

Vaguely, he wonders how the Doctor manages it. Then he shakes his head and checks his watch, mouth twisting into a snarl when he sees the time. The Doctor is  _ late _ . She’s always late, of course, but never with him, and it stings, if he’s being honest. Because he’d been waiting so long—so,  _ so _ long—to get her on the line, but he’s used to that. She’s always the one who reels herself in, bleeding at the mouth, because she can’t stand not to. Cat and mouse, and this time, he’s been kind. He’s letting her be the cat.

But she’s  _ late _ . 

With a huff, the Master turns on his heel and stares at the transmat device upon the counter. He could check. He could find her, and drag her into the game. He doesn’t want to, because it hurts like that, that she doesn’t want it. ‘Course, she always says that, that she doesn’t want to play, but he knows her truth from her lies. The Doctor can talk how she wants, but no matter what falls from that silver tongue, she’ll play regardless. She always has.

Except that she’s  _ late _ .

Suddenly, the Master can’t stand it. His perfect game,  _ their  _ perfect game, ruined by—by—

“Fine!” With an angry huff, he stalks to the counter and snatches up the device. Fingers play across the buttons, and in a moment he’s gone, whisked away to the in-between.

He doesn’t expect to find her there. More than that, he doesn’t expect to nearly trip over her. As it is, he stumbles, slipping on the hem of her coat, and has to grab a nearby trunk for balance, cursing all the while.

“Bloody—“ His eyes move downward, then widen. He freezes, stock-still. “ _ Doctor? _ ”

The Doctor doesn’t answer. A moment later, he sees why.

She’s fast asleep, curled up on damp ground, one arm tucked under her head and the other wrapped loosely around her knees. Hair falls over her face and her mouth hangs slightly open. As he watches, her shoulders move slightly with the rise and fall of her breath.

Tear tracks stain her face and that, more than anything, gives him pause.

He’s not a sucker for tears. Never has been. The cries of the oppressed don’t move him, nor that of the suffering. He’s watched genocide without barely a blink of the eye.

But once, when they were boys, the Doctor broke his arm and sobbed like a baby, and the Master teased him endlessly, but never left his side. He couldn’t. The Doctor cries out and it’s music to his ears, because it sounds like love. It’s a reaching hand that the Master will always grasp, because in every other thing the Doctor is the best. The smartest, the cleverest. Always one step ahead of the Master. Never needing him.

Except when he’s in pain, and that’s why the Master will cause it. Because he will remind the Doctor that even if he is so much better, he’ll always need him. There will always be a time when the Doctor will cry out, and the Master will answer. Even if the Master has to cause the torment himself.

The Doctor fidgets slightly in her sleep, then sighs, and the Master stares. He’s torn, his feet glued to the floor, because the Doctor is  _ here _ , crying out in anguish, and to not answer is unthinkable. To betray the game is impossible. If he breaks it, who knows if they’ll ever play again?

But the Doctor has broken it first, giving in on herself, and that’s what twists the Master’s lip into a disgusted snarl. He thinks about kicking her, and then decides that won’t help, pleasurable though it may be.

Instead, he decides, it’s time to drag her back into the game.

——————

Warmth brings the Doctor to unconsciousness. Warm hands on her shoulder, shaking gently, then under her armpits, hoisting her up.

“Don’ wanna,” she murmurs, tongue thick with sleep. “M’not—“

Something horrible is waiting for her in wakefulness, and she can’t remember what it is. Something horrible, except the hands that hoist her are soft, if a little brusque, and a familiar voice is chiding her gently.

“Come now, Doctor.” The voice is low, soothing. “C’mon, don’t be a rag. You’ve got to stand up. There are things to do.”

She doesn’t want to do them. Somebody is taunting her, she thinks, and she can’t remember who it is. Somebody has torn her life apart, and now she wants to sleep. 

Somebody else has a hand on her shoulder, gripping just a little too tightly, forcing her to balance. 

“I—“ She shakes her head, an enormous yawn welling up in her. “Jus’m few more minutes—“

“No, Doctor.” The voice is hard now, and even more familiar. “It’s not the time to sleep. Don’t you want to save your friends?”

“My friends—“ Her eyes fly open, and land on the face across from her, just in time to see the short flash of disappointment. Then, she blanches.

“You—“ She tries to back away, but his grip is too strong, his nails digging through her coat. “What do you want with me?”

The Master’s expression darkens, and he pushes her away. His hands fall to his sides, curling into fists.

“You gave up,” he says. “I came to get you.”

“Came to get me—“

The Master turns on his heel, his hands intertwining behind his back, and looks up at the trees above him.

“Disappointing, Doctor,” he says. He’s speaking to the trees. “A nap, while your friends are dying?”

“My friends—“ Guilt washes through her and she chokes on it, and from the Master she catches the faintest hitch of breath. 

“Oh, yes,” he says smoothly, his back still to her. She can’t entirely see his face, but at the edges she catches the upward twist of a soft smile. “I imagine they’re waiting for you. Unless, of course, you want to keep crying.”

“I wasn’t—“ she tries, but it’s useless to deny. She can feel the tears drying on her cheeks. “Why do you care? Why don’t you just leave me?”

Bitter hurt is coursing through her, and she can tell it’s on her face when he finally turns around. His eyes roam over her expression, then he steps close, gaze dropping into seriousness. Sympathy, even.

No—not sympathy. She’s seen that look on his face before, through so many eyes. She recognizes it, and it sends a knife slicing through her heart.

It’s love. Burning, bitter love. The painful kind, all the kindness sucked out.

“Because,” he says, and now he’s close enough to touch, his face inches from hers. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

Then he grabs her arm and pulls her close, hard enough to send her yelping in pain. She stumbles, gritting her teeth, and has just enough time to catch the hungry, sympathetic smile on his face, before he thumbs a button.

Together, they disappear.

  
  



End file.
